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First horse stories are a beginning.  A beginning of a lifelong love affair.  That first horse holds a place in our heart and soul that lays the groundwork for all the horses that come next.  Our passion leads us to the horse and the horse leads us to a new dimension of learning, experiencing and relating.  Here is a first horse story from Dianne McCleery that is both heartwarming and heartbreaking.  Enter the experience of her first love affair.

Rippling Wave

I was a horse-crazy little girl, wanting nothing more than to have my own horse. My father was a career military officer. We moved often, leaving behind friends and beloved pets. Money was tight, and no way was there time or money for me to obtain my dream.
Over the years I took lessons and on occasion had ridden friends’ horses. And never did the dream of having my own horse die.
Then, when I was sixteen, a school mate who knew I loved horses asked if I wanted one. Her sister was off at college and had no time to ride hers. After the farrier would shoe this horse, he would come up lame for several days afterwards. She didn’t feel right in selling him.
I asked my parents if I could have him, fingers and toes crossed. Luckily, I had a part time job at a ranch, so I could afford the monthly costs for a horse. Wonders of wonders, my parents said yes!
I became the proud owner of Rippling Wave, Rip for short, a half-Morgan, half-Standardbred gelding. I thought he was beautiful and fell in love at first sight. He was a dark chestnut, about fifteen years old, and supposedly well-trained. I moved him to a small boarding facility where he had a stall and attached corral. I had stars in my eyes and floated through the next few days.
When Saturday came, I saddled and bridled Rip and led him through a pasture to the trail behind the property. Taking a deep breath, I mounted up and, for the first time in my life, was riding my own horse.
What I hadn’t counted on, and was too green to notice, was that Rip hadn’t been ridden in a long, long time. He danced under me, swinging his butt this way and that, as I wrestled with the reins to try to get control.
A man on a white horse rode up the trail. At that point, Rip, who had slid down a short bank to under a tree, reared up. A tree branch caught me around the neck, and Rip took off at a gallop. The man’s horse bolted after him. I ended up in the dirt on my butt.
I was crushed. I searched in the dirt for my glasses and luckily found them. My dream come true had turned into a nightmare. My neck hurt, my butt hurt, my soul hurt. The man rode his white horse back up the trail, leading Rip by the reins. He handed them to me, asking, “Are you okay?”
I nodded yes, not trusting myself to speak.
I led Rip back through the pasture, un-tacked him, put him back in his corral, and slunk back home. I felt like I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened. I didn’t want to hear, “I told you so,” or “Be careful what you wish for.” I had already learned to hide from my family what was happening in my life.
I tossed and turned that night, not knowing what to do. I had my horse, and at this point, it was a disaster.
The next day, I returned to Rip. Another boarder was there, and I told her what happened. “Sounds like he was just fresh,” she said. She pointed to a flat area and said, “You can lunge him there.” I asked what lunging meant and she explained. (Lunging is putting a halter on a horse, attaching a long line, then standing in the center moving the horse around you. You are safe on the ground; the horse can get his ya-yas out.) So I haltered Rip, attached a long lead line, and sent him out around me. At first he kicked and bucked, which had me holding on for dear life and learning the meaning of “rope burn.” But soon he settled down, trotting rhythmically in a big circle, head lowered. I went home that night feeling a bit more optimistic.
After several days of lunging where Rip became nothing less than a gentleman, I saddled and bridled him again. I took him out to the trail and wisely hand-walked him down to the community arena. This time when I settled into the saddle, there was no dancing, only a well-trained horse that walked, trotted, and cantered on command. Now I was ecstatic! I was a horse owner, and I was in heaven!
Rip turned out to be the perfect first horse. I spent hours on his back, riding him in the arena, down trails, across meadows, and even once to the beach where we splashed through waves. Interestingly, he never once turned up lame after shoeing.
A couple of months after Rip dumped me on my butt, I came across the man on the white horse again. He looked at me in astonishment. “Is that the same horse?” he asked. I nodded. I was riding Rip bareback, no saddle, in a halter with a looped lead rope for a bridle, no bit. Life was good.
I had a wonderful six months with Rip before we had to move across country once again. My father’s secretary loved horses. She could afford the monthly board, but not the cost of a horse. I gave Rip to her, and he lived pampered for the rest of his life, giving rides to her and her nieces and nephews.
When Rip reared up and caught me by the neck in that tree, that wasn’t the first time I’d come off a horse. Nor was it the last. But it was certainly the most traumatic and taught me to be very, very sure a horse is ready to be ridden before even thinking about putting a foot into a stirrup.
And I bless the kindness of Rip’s original owner who made a horse-crazy girl’s dream come true, my parents for saying “yes” when I asked if I could have him, and the wise woman who taught me how to lunge a horse.
–END–

Dianne Chapman McCleery is a lifelong horsewoman.  Her credits and accomplishments are included but not limited to completion of CSHA”s Horsemanship Course, Barefoot Shoeing instruction and a one time certification in energy healing.  She specializes in Natural Horsemanship and Equine Behavior, having studied under Anne Soule of Foothill Equestrian Center.

The summer I was 52, I spent being 12 again.
It’s sweet when life gives you second chances. And when that chance has to do with horses, well, that’s twice as sweet.
I was a horse-crazy little girl. Unfortunately, I was born into a military family, and numerous moves made riding difficult at times. However, on one of those moves we lived in Fairfax, Virginia. I took lessons at a riding stable deep in Virginia horse country, an hour away from our home, and progressed as steadily as one could while riding one day a week.
Once when I was at those stables, I saw a girl my age, around twelve, cleaning out a stall. She held a pitchfork, and a wheelbarrow was stationed across the stall door. Dickie, my favorite mount, was tied outside. I wanted to be that girl; I wanted to be holding that pitchfork, be a part of that stable, making life pleasant for horses, not just showing up once a week to ride.
Several decades later, I lived on the opposite side of the country in the California Sierra Nevada foothills. One day I signed up my kids to take riding lessons at a local equestrian center. I watched two of those lessons, then approached the owner. “Anne,” I said, “would it be okay, I mean, can I take lessons with my kids?” I tried desperately (and probably unsuccessfully) to keep the pleading tone out of my voice.
The answer was an enthusiastic, “Of course.”
Although I’d had horses several times in my life, I hadn’t owned a horse in over fifteen years. I wasn’t even sure I could get up on one. That worry ended when my mount for my first lesson was Rosie, who was 13.2 hands tall, a pony, very easy to swing up on. Months passed, and the kids and I improved our riding skills, became more educated about horses, and enjoyed being at the stables.
About a year later, a note appeared on the bulletin board – the Saturday stall cleaner needed someone to take over her duties for a couple of months while she recovered from surgery. Hmm, I wondered if I could do that. I could offset some of the money we spent on lessons. And I thought back to that day when I was twelve and longed to be the one cleaning stalls. Did I really want to clean stalls now? At my age?
I read that note for a couple of weeks before I brought the subject up to Anne. “Do you think I could cover stall cleaning duties on Saturdays?” I asked. Again, an enthusiastic, “Of course.”
So here I was, on the plus side of 50, with a job cleaning stalls, shoveling, well, you-know-what. Although there were other adults who did this, I would by far be the oldest. Also, my normal work takes place in front of a computer; I’d never before had a job where I was a laborer. And the pay, although generous by industry standards, was at a rate I’d hadn’t seen in decades. My husband thought I was going off my rocker. Maybe I was.
I showed up the first day in worn jeans, an old t-shirt, and work gloves. I found that shoveling manure and shavings into a cart was not difficult. However, getting it out was.
In the first pen, I loaded the wheelbarrow to the brim with wet shavings and manure. Then I had to muscle the full cart out of the pen, not an easy task. There was a slope up to the top of the manure pile. I got stuck half way up and had to retreat. I made a run at that pile and barely got the cart to the top. Then I tried to upend it to dump it; it wouldn’t budge. I had to turn around, squat, grab the lower edge of the cart, and, straining away, shove upwards with my legs. The cart tipped over, and finally it was empty. One stall down. After that, I learned to take half-loads.
Although I never learned to love cleaning stalls, there were parts of my job that were pure joy: hearing horses nicker in the cool of the morning when I showed up to feed, visiting with others who loved horses, learning how to wrap legs and evaluate horses’ health and wellness. And it was definitely a physical job; some days I was so tired by the end of my chores, I could barely hold it together to drive home.
But, I was spending full days at the barn, which I would have loved to have done when I was twelve and was pretty darn great at 52. I could visit with others who loved horses; I built new muscles; I watched Anne work magic with green horses; I would listen as Anne taught others, something I found particularly valuable for my own riding for the repetition of the basics. The payback for cleaning stalls was all I’d hoped for.
I can’t say I was sorry when the regular stall cleaner came back to work since my back was beginning to complain. But I felt I was able to have an experience that I had desperately wanted when I was twelve. What a sweet second chance!

Dianne Chapman McCleery lives in the Sierra Nevada Foothills. She loves all things horses and particularly enjoys learning body work techniques to help improve horses’ lives.